"I beg your pardon, my friend. I am horribly depressed, but I am absolutely calm, and prepared for anything."
"Very well, Thérèse; in that case, I will tell you that you are free: the Comte de —— is no more."
"I know it," replied Thérèse. "I have known it a week."
"And you haven't told Laurent?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because some sort of reaction would have taken place in him instantly. You know how anything unexpected upsets and excites him. One of two things would have happened: either he would have imagined that my purpose in informing him of the change in my position was to induce him to marry me, and the horror of being bound to me would have intensified his aversion, or he would have turned suddenly, of his own motion, to the idea of marriage, in one of those paroxysms of devotion which sometimes seize him and which last—just a quarter of an hour, to be succeeded by profound despair or frantic wrath. The unfortunate creature is guilty enough toward me; it was not necessary to offer fresh bait to his caprice, and an additional motive for him to perjure himself."
"Then you no longer esteem him?"
"I do not say that, my dear Palmer. I pity him, and do not accuse him. Perhaps some other woman will make him happy and good. I have been unable to do either. It is probably as much my fault as his. However that may be, it is proved to my satisfaction that we never should have loved each other, and that we should not make any further effort to do so."
"And now, Thérèse, will you not think of taking advantage of the liberty you have recovered?"